


5 times Greg noticed Mycroft's hands, and 1 time Mycroft noticed Greg's

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Flirting, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's hands tell Greg more about Mycroft than anything else ever could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 times Greg noticed Mycroft's hands, and 1 time Mycroft noticed Greg's

**1.**

Greg’s never pegged himself down as a hand fetish kind of guy, and all things considered, he’s still convinced he isn’t. Mycroft Holmes’ hands are just an outlier. They’re standing around Sherlock’s hospital bed—dear God, did he really have to be so reckless in chasing after the armed criminal?—in silence, watching the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as he sleeps off the anaesthetics. Well, Mycroft is watching Sherlock, and Greg is watching Mycroft. In Greg’s case, perhaps staring would be a more accurate term. Then again, it’s the first time they’ve met, so Greg thinks he can be forgiven.

His mind is on overdrive as he catalogues every bit of Mycroft—instinctive behaviour from his job as a policeman, but mostly because he finally can put a face to eloquent words and a smooth, confident voice shared only through emails and phone calls. The three-piece suit and accompanying accessories surprise him the least; after all, Mycroft’s diction cries public school toff and by way of association, old money. And he wears it well, just like Sherlock wears his own suit well. He stifles a laugh that threatens to erupt when he tries to imagine them as boys, but his mind’s eye has already decided that they were born wearing suits.

One thing he couldn’t have predicted, though, is Mycroft’s hands. He looks down at his own rough, calloused hands, self-conscious of his thick fingers stained yellow from a smoking habit he has yet to kick, and nails cut to the quick. Though Mycroft’s, hell, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen such long, slender fingers before, nor hands that move with such elegance and grace. Greg’s gaze shifts from the hand resting by his side to the hand on top of his brolly’s handle, knuckles white from gripping tightly, and Greg thinks that tells him more about Mycroft—and his relationship with Sherlock—than any other physical aspect he’s studied so far. When it comes down to it, Mycroft is just a protective older brother concerned for his dear brother’s wellbeing, and Greg feels relief wash over him once more at having reached Sherlock in time.

“Mycroft, I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him—”

Mycroft raises his free hand to stop Greg from speaking any further. “Nonsense. You cannot expect yourself to be held accountable for my brother’s rashness, Inspector.”

“Greg,” he corrects automatically, eyes following Mycroft’s hand as it drops gracefully by his side again.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmurs, and Greg feels a little thrill course through him at the sound of his name from Mycroft for the first time.

A moment of silence passes during which Mycroft’s thumb worries the brolly’s handle—nerves or force of habit, Greg wonders—and then Mycroft clears his throat. “I trust you will keep me updated about Sherlock. I’m afraid I have urgent matters that I cannot delay any further, so if you will excuse me.”

Long after Mycroft has left, Greg is still thinking of pale hands, slender fingers, and a soft voice whispering his name.

 

**2.**

The coffee stain on the cuff of his shirt sleeve has never bothered him so much until now. Mycroft Holmes looks so out of place in his messy office, and he’s suddenly overcome with an urge to clean his desk or to put on a tie or just _something_ to make him seem more presentable and less like a slob.

“I’m sorry this place is such a mess. I wasn’t expecting you to…” Greg trails off uncertainly.

Of course he wasn’t expecting Mycroft to stop by his office. He wasn’t even expecting to see him again in person. After all, Mycroft has always communicated with him via other means. Yet Greg can’t help but feel equally thrilled and apprehensive at the thought that maybe, just maybe, this means that their relationship—in a completely official capacity, he reminds himself—is changing.

“Sherlock is currently working on a case and I believe it is imperative that you know of the critical details. However, as these files are classified, I cannot leave them here with you.” Mycroft takes the seat opposite and pulls a dossier out of his briefcase.

When Mycroft flips through the files and shows Greg exactly what he should take note of, Greg finds his thoughts straying to Mycroft’s hands. They’re beautiful. Elegant. An embodiment of the man sitting in front of him.

“Gregory?”

“Huh?” He gives the pages in front of him a quick once-over, willing himself to focus on the underlined content. “Yeah, got it. I think.” He really hopes that Sherlock doesn’t screw up because he wasn’t listening to a word Mycroft was saying. Not that he could anyway, not with the way Mycroft licked his finger to help with separating the pages. Fuck, how did Mycroft turn such a simple act into the most sensual thing he’s ever seen?

“Excellent. Unfortunately, I have a meeting to attend, so I must take my leave.”

“Right. See you later then, Mycroft,” Greg says before realising what he has insinuated a moment too late. How presumptuous of him to assume that Mycroft Holmes has all the free time in the world to visit an old copper at the Yard when he could just as easily contact him with the single press of a button.

But to Greg’s private relief and pleasure, Mycroft’s lips twitch ever so slightly and there’s a brightness in his eyes that wasn’t there before when he replies, “Yes, I believe I shall, Gregory.”

 

**3.**

He doesn’t know when his schedule started including meetings with Mycroft Holmes every three or four weeks, but it has and he’s definitely not complaining. The food is good, the wine is good, the company is good; heck, Mycroft even sends a car to the Yard to pick him up after work.

It’s a pleasant surprise when Greg spots Mycroft sitting in the backseat. However, Mycroft remains on the phone for the whole trip, so he resigns himself to looking out the window. And although the sights and lights of London are lovely, he’s more interested in Mycroft’s reflection. Mycroft’s fingers grasp his phone tightly when his voice raises—he’s speaking in another language, so Greg can only assume that he’s frustrated from the tone—and his grip loosens when he’s calmer.  

Greg doesn’t recognise the phone model, although to be fair, his phone expertise only extends to taking photos and videos during times when Sherlock cocks up. And of course, only the best are shown to Mycroft and many anecdotes and laughs are shared.

It’s quite unbelievable to think that he, too, was once restricted to the other side of Mycroft Holmes’ phone.

 

**4.**

“You brought me coffee?”

It’s late in the afternoon and Greg couldn’t be any happier to have a hot cup of coffee to deal with a complicated crime scene, rainy weather, and a moody Sherlock Holmes bounding about to search for evidence.

“I was in the area and I thought you might need something to help you survive the most formidable forces of London.” Mycroft adjusts his umbrella so they’re both shielded from the rain and then passes the beverage over to Greg.

“This is bloody amazing. I could marry you right now,” he sighs happily into his cup.

“I do hope you don’t say that to just anyone who brings you good coffee,” Mycroft chides, but there’s a teasing lilt to his voice.

Greg grins mischievously as he sidles closer to Mycroft to protect his coffee from the rain. “Oh, y’know, just to those who share their umbrella as well.”

Mycroft chuckles. “I suppose I should be flattered then.”

“Yeah, I should hope so.”

“Well, consider myself extremely flattered, Detective Inspector.”

When they’re standing in close proximity and exchanging good-natured banter, it isn’t surprising that their hands brush against each other. What does surprise Greg, though, is how such a simple touch from Mycroft’s hand can immediately warm him to the core—a pleasant warmth that is much more effective and lasting than what the cup of coffee has to offer.

And in retrospect, Greg realises that his very fixation on the pleasant warmth blindsided him to the fact that when he flirts with Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes—the bloody British Government—flirts back _._

 

**5.**

“Gregory, quick!”

“Mycroft, what on earth is going on?” he hisses as he allows himself to be pulled into a small alcove behind one of the many bookshelves in the Talking Room, watching in awe as Mycroft tugs on a lever to return the bookshelf  to its original position. Light from the street lights streams in through the slats of an air vent above their heads. Even though there’s enough room for them to stand side by side with their shoulders barely touching, it’s obvious their hiding place is not designed to comfortably fit anyone, let alone two grown men, for an extended period of time.

“Well, I may have visited Sherlock’s filthy bedsit earlier and took the liberty to dispose of an experiment emitting the most awful odour…”

“Oh.”

“However, I didn’t realise he’d bother to come to the Diogenes.”

“Don’t you have some emergency exit from your fancy room?”

“Yes. However, Sherlock knows about that. And besides, this way we can witness his reaction firsthand,” Mycroft whispers as he hears the resounding thud of Sherlock opening the door.

Greg grins, suddenly catching a glimpse of what their childhood must have been like before whatever incident shaped their current relationship. And he decides he likes this Mycroft too—the Mycroft who fusses over his younger brother’s antics, yet still retains some of the mischievousness found in older brothers when they tease their younger siblings. And in turn, Sherlock does his best to retaliate against Mycroft. 

“Oh, of course he’d know—” Greg’s breath catches in his throat. Mycroft’s left hand is clasped over his mouth, and while he realises its purpose in efficiently quietening him; the mere realisation of the proximity of Mycroft’s hand is enough to shock him into silence.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock thunders. The volume of his footsteps oscillates between loud and louder and Greg desperately tries to distract his mind by imagining Sherlock stomping about the room, angrily checking the warmth of the seats and studying the placement of their drinks to determine their location.

“I know you and your visitor haven’t gone far, you lazy sod.” Greg wonders if Sherlock has identified him as Mycroft’s visitor.

The sound of glass breaking—hopefully it’s his empty glass and not Mycroft’s untouched one—has Mycroft responding by tightening his fingers around Greg’s mouth, not enough to inflict pain, but heck, that’s all it takes for the last shred of Greg’s self-control to fall apart. He closes his eyes, throws caution to the wind, and licks tentatively at the soft skin of Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft’s grip loosens, but he doesn’t pull away. The sheer amount of trust granted to him in that simple action, or rather, inaction, causes his chest to tighten—almost painfully. The tip of Greg’s tongue carefully traces palm lines, committing them to memory, channelling all of his focus into touching, tasting, learning all he can about the hand that has fascinated him for so long. His tongue roves over the thicker skin at the top of Mycroft’s palm, enjoying the distinct difference in texture from the soft skin in the middle. He pushes his tongue against the base of Mycroft’s fingers, forcing them to spread apart so he can explore the spaces between them.

Greg barely registers Sherlock loudly proclaiming Mycroft’s demise in the near future, followed by the telltale bang of the heavy door to indicate his departure.

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathes as they stumble out into the open.

The room is in a mess and shards of glass litter the table and the carpet around it, yet Greg is only aware of Mycroft’s intense gaze and the knowledge of what he has just done.

“I—I—I have to go,” Greg mumbles before fleeing.

 

**+1**

Mycroft couldn’t sleep a wink last night. He walks into Gregory’s office and shuts the door behind him, knowing that he probably looks terrible, but if he doesn’t discuss this—this whatever it is—as early as possible, then he won’t be able to function properly.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmurs, waiting for Gregory to look in his direction. He doesn’t, so Mycroft hangs his umbrella off the side of the desk and sits down in the chair opposite, bracing himself. Oh dear, has this floor of the Met always been this quiet and empty? “You must know that I, I…”

Not many people have the ability to render him at a loss for words, and Gregory has done it twice in the span of two days. He’s fumbling for the right words to say, needing to give form to the whirlwind of feelings emerging from deep within. It’s difficult. He wonders briefly if this is what it means to be reckless as he reaches for Gregory’s hand. Mycroft holds it loosely, giving Gregory a chance to pull back, yet he stays put. Emboldened, Mycroft lifts it to his mouth and gently kisses the tip of each finger—a gesture so intimate borne of desperation for Gregory to understand what he cannot convey through words.  

“Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice is a hoarse whisper.

Mycroft lowers their hands to rest against the cool hardness of the desk, using his thumb to slowly rub small circles on the back of Gregory’s hand.

He clears his throat and says, quietly, “Now we’re even.”

Gregory’s dark, sincere eyes search out his own, and then he smiles widely, laughter lines gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“You know, I’ve always wondered why you do that,” Gregory says, nodding towards their hands. “You did it to your umbrella handle the first time I met you too. Is it nerves?”

It takes a moment for Mycroft to give Gregory an answer. Instead, he hums thoughtfully, relishing the feel and warmth of Gregory’s hand against his. At last he looks up and shares a small, hesitant smile. “I believe I do it to things that I don’t want to let go of.”

 


End file.
